Disclaimer: I own nobody in this story, and I really hope that this never ever happens.

Pulling The Trigger

The shiny, black weapon in my hand is heavier than I thought it would be, but the handle fits perfectly in my hand and my finger fits perfectly against the trigger. I've never held a gun before, but it doesn't feel foreign, it actually feels quite comforting. My dangerous new friend started calling for me last night, but I couldn't find it. This afternoon, when I found it hidden under a mountain of towels in the linen closet and I wrapped my hand around it, I felt like I had finally found my soul mate.

It sure would make a statement if I had only one bullet, and the rest were scattered on this bathroom floor. Unfortunately, I don't know enough about guns to do that. All I know is that when I cock it, put it against my temple, and pull the trigger, I'll be dead. The owner of this gun and the man I used to love, Scott Hall, doesn't know anything about this weapon, either. He bought it years and years ago after a night of drugs made him believe that little pink monsters wanted him, and this particular gun was his only form of defense.

Throughout our thirteen-year relationship, nights of watching Scott get high on anything and everything far outnumbered nights of sweet, slow, passionate lovemaking. For the first eight or nine years, I was still too young and dumb to really notice that Scott cared more for the drugs and drinking than he did for me. When I finally matured and realized just how bad Scott's problem was, I threatened to leave. He proved his love for me by getting clean, and I proved my love for him by supporting him through every step of that hell. He didn't stay clean for very long, though.

The first night that Scott started drinking again, he told me that he was going to get gas and a gallon of milk. After three hours of waiting for him, I went to bed, realizing that he was out drinking again. I heard him stumble in the front door and trip up the stairs a couple hours later. When he finally got to our bedroom, he tripped over his own feet, fell face-first on our bed, and slurred I love you Kevin before he passed out. The next morning brought a million mumbled apologies, but he went out again that night.

Right now, Scott is supposed to be picking up dinner from the local Italian place, which he'll probably forget about once he passes the liquor shop and hears the bottles calling his name. I glance up at the little clock we have in our master bathroom and see that it will be at least an hour before Scott's brakes will squeal in the driveway, spilling whatever may be left of his drink. As my gaze returns to the lethal weapon cradled in my left hand, I feel a sharp pain in my neck. It reminds me of how over my life is now, before I pull the trigger.

I'm supposed to have surgery on my neck next week, but I guess that the doctor will have to schedule somebody else for that time. I'm so sick and tired of being injured. I'm sure that I would not need all my fingers and toes to count the number of matches I've had since WCW went under. I thought about going through with the match against Goldberg with my bad neck. Goldberg has got to be the most unsafe wrestler ever, so I could trust him to screw up and kill me in the ring. With my luck, though, he'd break my neck so that I'd be paralyzed and stuck here with my drunk lover for a few more decades. I also thought about going through the surgery, but I really don't think that I'd ever return to the ring. And, what's the point in living if I can't wrestle?

The warm, black metal in my hand is getting impatient now. It wants some action. After years of being ignored in the linen closet, someone is finally going to put it to good use. The gun is excited, as am I. Finally, I have found a friend that is going to put me out of my pain instead of create more. I think that I like this shiny, black weapon more than I've ever liked any human. So, I kiss the barrel of the gun. It's taste lingers on my lips and tastes just like I thought it would--kind of like blood. That brings the first genuine smile to my lips in a very long time, and I cock the weapon. I raise my arm until I feel the metal against my temple, and I pull the trigger.



El Fin.